My Lonely Angel
by TigerLilly1995
Summary: Five years; that's how long it was since I lost someone very dear to me. I never gave much thought to what I'd do if I meet the one who took my mom away from us, broke our home, and stole our dad. But now that I met him, I realize that bringing him to justice may not be quite as easy, seeing as he's eighteen feet tall, and metal. And his boss isn't making it any easier either.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: hello everyone! I rewrote Never Let Me Go, under a new name, and I'm hoping that you will like it even more – I know I do. And for those of you who never read this: I hope with all my heart that you will love it. A few things to consider: I heard that Tranquility is in California – thank you, The-Gothic-Princess1 – so for the sake of this story, I made Tranquility on the coast of California. Also, for the sake of this story, Bee has been on Earth for several years; please keep that in mind because it's IMPORTANT.**

**The cover picture is what Faye looks like, by the way. And with that, please continue, and love this, and tell me what you think; enjoy:**

**Part one: Battle for the Allspark**

_"You never know how strong you are, until being strong is the only choice you have."_

_"Sometimes I hate getting close to people because I think they will just eventually walk out of my life, no matter how close we are."_

_"I don't understand why destiny allowed some people to meet, when there's no way for them to be together."_

_"The worst things in life come free to us."_

_"Loneliness is a good feeling when it is created by yourself, but it is the worst feeling when it is gifted by others."_

_"Sometimes it's better to be alone; no one can hurt you that way."_

_"The only thing I learned from love is the power it gives someone to crush you."_

_"I'm not a perfect person; I make a lot of mistakes. But I really appreciate those people who stay with me after knowing how I really am."_

_"Each day I put my head toy pillow and try to tell myself that I'm strong because I've gone one more day without you."_

_"Someday you'll find the one who will watch every sunrise with you until the sunset of your life."_

_"Do you ever wander what happens to the girls no one hears when they cry for help?"_

_"People cry not because they're weak. It's because they've been strong for too long."_

I add, with struggle, _"Alive, or just breathing?"_ to the randomly scribbled list of quotes on my side of the bedroom – pressing on the pen as hard as I can to get some color out – filling in the last free space I could find, completing the self-created wallpaper of quotes that I have been adding to, every day for the last three years. All this and more covers the entire wall against which my bed stands. If the bed were to be moved, I'd have a nice contour of it in the far corning, surrounded by a hundred words in a black sharpie pen. I put the cap back on the pen, waving my hand on front of my face from the fowl stench of it.

The smell of sharpie constantly gives me a migraine, but I guess that after three years of sleeping right next to a wall full of sharpie ink, I got used to it. The black graphite stands out boldly against the other three plain white walls, lit by a dim yellow light; dirty from the years of not being tended to.

With a sigh, I plop down on the bed, tossing the now dead sharpie into the trashcan under our desk, only to have it bounce off the rim and drop on the ground, rolling away from its destination. I huff in frustration, groaning in exasperation. Stupid marker. "Don't wanna die, do you?" I ask it, hoping lazily off my bed and sauntering over to it, picking it up off the floor. "Well… you gotta go," I tell it, spinning in my hand. "I'm sorry, but you're done; I can't use you anymore, so I don't need you," I say drily, and then toss it in the trash can. This time, it hits the bottom of the desk, hitting the floor again. I growl, snatching in up off the floor, and shove it violently into the trashcan. "There, you useless thing; and stay there!"

"You know, talking to a sharpie pen is the first sign of insanity." I turn to the speaker, flipping her off and go back to my bed, flopping numbly down onto it. "Well, _someone's_ in a sunny mood tonight. What's wrong?" Clair asks gently, walking over to me and sitting on my bed. But I'm not in the mood for her – which, for the record, is quite rare – or talking about anything.

"What do you care? I'm in a bad mood; happens to the best of us. Now, if you will, you have your own bed, so go sit on _it_; don't touch mine," I snap, turning to face the wall. I read over the line staring me in the face, over and over again: _"I compromised everything for you. But at the end, you compromised me for everything."_

Stupid quote; stupid quote, stupid wall, stupid black ink the smells like the sewer, stupid everything. Tears work their way into my eyes, my throat thickening as I feel a sob coming on. I dismiss it, pushing back against it with every ounce of my strength.

I feel the weight lift off the edge of my bed, Clair standing up with a sigh. "Well, when you feel like talking, I'll be doing my homework." Yeah, you do that. Sorry I can't stick around, I have work.

I get up and throw on my leather coat, and grab my bag from the bottom of the closet, than find my uniform hanging on one of the coat hangers. _I despise you_, I think to it, gritting my teeth.

I hold the blue uniform shirt in front of my face, grunting in irritation. I hate my job. I hate that I'm the coffee girl of the store that everyone gets to push around like a child, criticized for, well… anything they could think of.

It isn't fair. I'd honestly rather deal with stuck-up, shitty customers all day long that do inventory and fetch the lunches and stay after hours to help the janitor. Then again, I guess I have no one to blame but myself. After all, I was the one who said I'll take anything they were willing to give. I needed the job, I got it. That's it, end of story.

With an exasperated sigh of frustration, I carelessly stuff the uniform into my bag, zipping it shut.

Gosh I don't want to go to work night! I have a math test in a few days, and I have yet to start studying. I have way too much things to do to go to work: cleaning, dinner, the bills. Maybe I could call in sick. But then what about the previously mentioned bills? They aren't going to pay themselves. I leave my room, closing the door behind me and saying a little prayer: _please let her be smart and not intervene_.

"Whatareyou… doing…?" I hear dad mumble incoherently. I barely make out the words. Biting my lip, vexed, and with yet another sigh, I swing my bag over my shoulder and, turning on my heels, walk passed him, shoving him out of the way… and immediately regret it. The smell of God knows what sort of alcohol hits me in the face like a brick wall. I get lightheaded and lose balance, tumbling over. I brace myself against him and regain my footing before shooting him a death-glare.

"Your job," I spit before shoving past him and out into the hall.

"Oh no you don't. Get back here," dad barks, and I drag myself to a stop, spinning around to face him.

"What do you want? I'll be late."

"You forgot the laundry… and… argh, I know you forgot to do something else. What did you forget?"

"Dad, I have no clue what you're talking about. As for the laundry… do it yourself if you want. I washed _our_ clothes, you can wash _yours_," I say, folding my hands over my chest. I shift my weight, leaning on my left leg.

"Oh, right; yesterday, one of you left me a note, telling me to clean up in the kitchen. Who the hell do you think you are, huh?" He demands, his eyes blazing. I'm far too proud to admit that it actually intimidates me.

I wasn't the one who left the note, but I decide that better me than her, and, biting my lip, say, "yeah well, you should clean up because you were the one who left the mess. Now, if that is all, I'll be going-"

"You are not going anywhere until you clean up in the kitchen and do the laundry!" He roars, booming in my face. I flinch away, refusing to show that I am, in fact, a little scared.

"No," I say, holding my ground.

"I said do it!" he shouts at me. I purse my lips.

"Dad, listen, I'm late for work; I can't be late, ok? I'll be fired, and I'll have to look for a new job. I'll clean up and do the laundry after I get home," I try to reason, attempting to find a compromise.

He doesn't seem to hear me so I make up my mind before he could react. Down the hall, out the door, across the lawn, and finally into the car. I pull away from the house in record speed. It's so stupid and ridiculous, but tears form in my eyes yet again – for the second time tonight, if I may add.

It hurts me to see him like that: stumbling over his words, and boiling over, and tripping over his own feet. He screams at things that aren't even there and talks to thin air, as if he's talking to her. He just sits on the couch, and has full conversations with himself, thinking that she's in front of him. I hate it; to have him that way.

He used to take Clair and I to all of our school parties, went to all the parent-teacher conferences, and held my hand when I was getting my first tooth pulled out. He threatened the bullies and taught us to rollerblade. He kept all the drawings and played hide-and-seek for hours on end. We ran around in the back yard, squirting each other with the gardening hose.

And now look at him: beaten up and weak and confused; drowning in liquor to block out the memories and the pain. I grip the steering wheel tighter, pushing back against the tears, but my efforts are without result.

"You swore you'd never leave me," I say to the empty car. "You promised me that you will never let anyone hurt me." He turned his back on the two of us, leaving me to fend for myself. I thought of nothing but his pain; he didn't see us hiding in our room, wishing for him to come and comfort us. He forgot that the loss was not only his. My dad disappeared; he's gone now.

I drown out my tears, instead saying a silent prayer in my head: _please let him have been too pissed at me to do anything but go find himself another bottle_. I learned not too long ago, that a bottle was better than the alternative. For a man who spent the last eight years at the bottom of a bottle, he was pretty strong and could think straight enough. The alternative was not an option; not over my cold dead body.

I will never let him hurt Clair. I've been taking his bitching for five years; I can take another year – just until we finish high school. And then we will go; leave and never come back. We're eighteen, and can live alone, but we should really finish school first.

A memory surfaces: when we were sixteen, we were pretending that we were going to run away. We even made a runaway pack, with things we'd immediately need. That bag is still lost in the closet, buried in clothes, hidden from sight. I smirk at the memory of how silly and hopeful we once were. Thinking we can live alone at barely sixteen. We were so naïve and innocent. It's all gone now, though; the last strands of youthfulness and dreams are all gone… along with the last strand of my dignity, since a year ago.

With dad drinking himself to death, and the bills piling up by the hour… There is so much to take care of and so little strength and time to do any of it. I shake my head, closing my eyes for just a second, before turning my gaze right back to the dark road.

I miss you, dad. Where are you? Why did you go? Why did you promise, only to break every word you ever gave us?

_"It's ok dear' daddy's here… daddy's got you." He rocked my back and forth, patting my back to calm the tears the streamed down my face. I sniffed, looking up at him with sad eyes._ "_I'll never learn how to ride a bike," I complained._

_I felt him chuckle a little, his chest rumbling softly at the sound. "Of course you will. Clair did; didn't she? And she had just as much trouble with it, if not more, right?"_

_"Yeah," I say, still sniffing a little._

_"Hey! I heard that!" I heard Clair shout as she rode her bike around the street._

_"Off the road Clair! Roads are for cars!" daddy shouted to her._ _I giggled as dad told Clair to use the side walk or she'll be grounded from her bike for a week._

_"Come on sweetie, you can do it."_

_"Of course you can!" Clair squeaked excitedly, "It's easy. See, like this." And she rode off, pedaling away happily._

_"Come on darling, you can do it," daddy coxed._

_"But the bike keeps falling. My keens hurt. I don't want to fall," I whined._

_"Don't worry, I promise you won't fall; I won't let you. Come on, one more time, and then we can stop for today; deal?" daddy said with a kind smile. I nodded my head. "Ok."_

_I get up, off of his lap, pick my bike up, and climb on. I'm going to try really hard this time. I want to ride my bike with Clair. Daddy held my bike steady, keeping it from falling over. I turned to look at him._

_"Promise?"_

_"Promise. Darling, I _swear_ to you, I will _never_ let you get hurt, _never_. Do you understand?"_

_I nod my head. "I love you, daddy."_

_"I love you more, sweetheart. I love you all so much. And I will always love and protect you; always."_

_He put his arms around me, hugging me, and I tightly wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him even tighter._

_"And I will always love you too, daddy. I'll never let you go."_

_Tears roll down my face, burning my cheeks like acid. My throat tightens, making it hard to breath and I struggle to swallow the lump in it, but to no avail. I miss you, daddy; why did you go?_

.oOo.

I park the car outside of Walmart, staring at my workplace for a good five minutes before I succeed in making myself presentable again. I grab my bag from the passenger seat, and get out of the car. It makes a loud beeping noise as I lock it, and head to work. I change in the staff changing room, and check myself over in the mirror. I splash some water on my face, and dry it, then put on a bright smile – not because it's the rules, but because then I wouldn't have to explain the tear stains on my olive cheeks.

Crappy customers, complaining co-workers who think I care about how bad their day is, and about how tired they are. Well news flash: I work here, too! My day is just as bad as yours, if not worse! So I couldn't care less about how you're too tired to go get the coffee, and the donuts, so you want me to run across the road and by them for you! I'm not your coffee-girl!

Only I am, and whatever I'm told to do, I do it without question, because I need this job. I finally got a raise above minimum wage, and I needed the money desperately. I swear, there is a hole in my bank account, because every time I check it, there is less and less money. Clair has the same problem, and both of us know exactly what that hole looks like: just picture our dad, holding a bottle of vodka.

So boy did I need the job. So I didn't complain. At least on the bright side, I, as a member of staff, get fifty percent off of all items I buy. That's why when Clair and I do the groceries, we only ever come here; that way we save half the money. And Clair was a cleaver girl, and found a job at a girl's clothing store, getting her thirty percent off all purchases. We made it work quite nicely, if you ask me; very convenient.

I pin my hair up as I leave the changing room, heading into my assigned section of the store, and, putting on a brilliant smile, go find a customer to talk into buying something that looks terrible, by telling them how lovely they look in it. Stupid customers and their indecisiveness.

I spend the next half hour running back and forth between racks, looking for a good enough outfit for some girl who is probably just enjoying making my job difficult, because no matter what I offer her, she won't like it. At one point, I trip over an article of clothing, laying on the floor, and fall, crashing right into her. That's when I see the end of my time here. I'm dead; fired; my career of a Walmart worker id over; caput; no more.

"Oh my God," I hurry to apologies, "I'm so sorry." But whoever the woman is, she won't have it. At the end, she leaves the store empty-handed – thankfully sparing my the embarrassment of being lectured on how to do my job by her in front of the entire store – poor Bridget, I felt so sorry for her.

Why can't I work as a cashier? I wouldn't have to run back and forth all the time. I feel that people go to Walmart for the sole purpose of making life difficult for everyone. Is it possible to not hate your job? Because if there is a job like that, please point me in its direction immediately.

.oOo.

My shift ended at its usual ten PM, and I packed up, changed back into my shirt and leather jacket, pulling the sleeves up to my elbow. Taking my bag, I clock out, dismissing a request for a donut from Tim Hortons just before I do so. No, co-worker, whose name I can't be bothered to remember, my shift is over. I am _so_ not getting you anything. You want a donut, go get it yourself; your arms won't fall off if you do. I want to snap at him, telling him to buy his food on his own, and that I wasn't his wife to do the shopping for him, but I refrain from doing so, knowing that he will probably tell on me, and that's not an option I'm willing to take.

I pull away from the lot, heading on the familiar road that will take me back home. I've gone on this route for so long, that I can drive it with my eyes closed – not that it would be safe or legal; I'm just saying I could. As I drive into my neighborhood, I slow down a little, still going over the speed limit, but I just want to go home and go to sleep.

But when something catches my eyes, I stomp on the stop pedal as hard as I can, the car screeching, and jerking to a stop. I brace myself against the steering wheel, jerking forward as the car freezes in the middle of the road. My mouth wide open, I gap at the car driving in my direction. As it passes, the driver, some teenage kid, looks at my car with a questioning look I the kind of look that makes you want to flip the person off.

I put the car on parking mode and get out as fast as I can, turning to look at the back of the car, catching the plate number in the dim street light. Just barely, but I manage to catch the plate number of the yellow and black Camaro. My heart stops and falls to the ground as, under the dust and dirt, I catch the numbers and letter that have imprinted themselves into my head for all eternity.

Tears fill my eyes as the plate number I see matches the one I remember so perfectly. It can't be the same driver, but it's certainly the same car. I know nothing of cars, and it's a miracle that I actually passed my driving test, but this car I would recognize anywhere.

Suddenly I understand exactly what dad felt when he started drinking; I understand exactly why he quit. I would have quit, too, if I had that option. Seeing that car again somehow managed to justify everything dad has done in the last five years. Somehow, it makes it the right thing, because I feel the pain he felt then, now; seeing that demon's car again. That terrible, awful, horrid car that did all of this… the car that ruined all our lives.

**AN: What do you say? Did you like it? I definitely liked it better than the first version; tell me if you did, too, please. Please leave a review of something, to tell me if I did good with this - I really hope I did.**

**I will see you all lovelies next chapter. Bye! *waves***


	2. Chapter 2

**-galaxypa: **thank you.

**-Darth Magus: **here is more, just as you demanded. I'm glad you enjoy this.

**-SilverZelenia: **so Tranquility _is_ on the coast? Thank goodness. And thank you for mentioning!

**-Zeng Xiao Long Sunstar Crystal: **I'm glad you think that, but I wasn't quite happy with it; it wasn't going where I originally wanted it to go. I also really hope that the rewrite will be much better.

**-AnonGirl: **I'm glad you do.

**-KneelingAngel: **thank you!

**Thank you all for reviewing, you guys are great! I'm so happy that you like the re-write so much! And a big thanks to ****EthanPrime21 for beta-ing this story for me! ****Here you go, my lovelies; another chapter. Enjoy!**

Somehow, the last five years suddenly seem more than ok, and completely acceptable. Suddenly I understand, and even agree with what dad was doing all this time. Suddenly, his solution seems very relevant, and even a little alluring. We didn't have the option of drowning in a bottle of liquor then, and we still don't – not until we are twenty one – but as I drive home, I feel like a bottle is just what I need, especially now that my vision is clouded with tears, the road before me blurring into a confusing… something.

I wipe a fallen tear from my cheek with my wrist, choking down another sob. Once again I was reminded of what I lost that night and what more I _could_ have lost, had mom not been there, and had she not done what she had. Someone would say that that was luck – the last time that this 'luck' was on our side. And calling it luck is a crime; it was as far from luck as you can get. More like mom's quick reflexes; nothing more. No, luck appeared to have left us the night before, because since then, everything was going downhill. It seemed God – if he even existed – was looking the other way that night. I stopped believing in God when nothing happened to prevent mom from being torn from us in an atrocious way. And if God did exist, I hate him for not doing anything.

It was so easy to blame a mystical being; so convenient and simple. It's not like he could be all up in our face, all like "don't blame me! You don't even have proof!"

I didn't need proof; my current situation was proof enough.

I sniff, making a gross sound, followed by a choking sound that resembles an animal, being stabbed with a ball-point pen, over and over again. All of that is accompanied with a muffled wail. The car pulls up in front of my house, and put it in parking mode, slamming my forehead against the steering wheel, a sob rocking through my. I choke on my tears, going into a small fit of coughing.

Why did it have to happen? Why did they awful car have to be there that night? Why did **we** have to be there that night? Why did that terrible Devil's car have to be here, in Tranquility now? What were the odds? Of all the cities in North America, why did it have to come here? Why did that poor teenage kid have to buy it? It was probably his first car – it's the only reason to why it's such a cheap piece of crap. That poor kid; he has no idea what we lost because of that dreadful car and its cursed drover – the last guy who drove it. He just ran away, not wanting to pay for what he's done, and now that poor kid bought that car from him.

Oh that poor boy.

I cry my eyes out, coughing and choking out all the tears I had, mourning on e of the three more important people in the universe, and after God knows how long. I finally find it in myself to get out of the car. I lock it and walk across the lawn, entering through the back door, so I don't have to come close to out room just yet. In the bathroom, I climb out of my clothes and take a shower, letting the hot water wash away the tears and pain; take away the tension and stress of tonight.

Everything was ruined. Clair and I were struggling to tie two ends together, the bills and debts piling up every single day. A year ago we stooped down so low as to borrow money for some people we know. I can't believe we had to ask for money! I feel my face redden; in embarrassment, rather than from the heat in the small showering stall – that day I lost the last shred of dignity I had left in me. We had to ask for money! With my parents both working, I don't even remember money being a problem. Then again, they never really talked money with us. I can see why they wouldn't: it's just too hard. Clair is so exhausted, and I'm not much better. She tries to never let it on, but it's too hard for her. I've done everything I could to lessen the weight she carries, but she's just so fragile. Just don't tell her that, because she will beat me up. She's far from weak, but she _is_ worn out. It's too much; for anyone.

I lean against the shower door, sighing as the hot water works away at my worries, relaxing me a little. Not much, though. There is still so much I'm stressing over. There is so much to think about; so much to pay for.

I shake my head again, not wanting to think about any of it. Right now, I had other things to do. I get out of the shower, wrapping a robe around myself and towel-dry my hair. I grab my things and leave the shower, going down the hall to my room. I see light through the crack under the door, but can't assume anything. She might be sleeping, she might be not. I tip-toe to the door, pushing it open carefully, making sure it doesn't creak.

Inside, Clair is sitting right where she was when I left, legs crossed, fingers tapping out an impatient pattern on the table. The moment she sees me, she stands up in anger. I take a small step back, a little scared of the look in her eyes. But before I can put my foot back down on the ground…

**Smack**

It's not enough to make my head jerk to the side, but it hurts, nonetheless. I blink a few times, opening and closing my mouth, and rubbing my cheek. "Ouch. That was unnecessary," I sate, a little shocked. "What the hell was that for?" I demand, heading over to the closet and stuffing my things carelessly into it, and digging my pajamas out from the unsorted mess.

"You know perfectly what that was for," Clair sneers as I do that. "What was that out on the hall tonight? What's wrong with you?"

"A simple 'thank you' would suffice," I say sourly, going to my bed, keeping my back to her, and change into my sleeping gear. "'Thank you'? I didn't ask you to stick your neck out for my again," she hisses, clearly pissed with what I did. I roll my eyes, turning to her.

"Well I didn't ask for your permission, now did I?"

"Stop being heroic, it doesn't suit you."

"I'm not being heroic," I retaliate, crossing my arms. "I'm being protective. That's what sisters do. Do you want me to list all the time when _you_ took hell for _me_? I think we're fair here."

"This isn't a competition, Gwinn; I put up with his crap just as long as you do and I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, thank you very much. I don't need you to take it for me," Clair snaps. I press my lips together. Why won't she understand that I will take his bitching for her a hundred time over if it meant she got none? "I don't need you taking blame for anything, you got that? I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."

"Clearly you aren't big enough a girl if we're having this conversation. If you were a 'big girl', you'd just do the smart thing and let it go," I tell her, getting annoyed.

"If _you_ were mature enough, you'd let me answer for what I did, instead of babying me like a three-year-old!"

"Just let it go, will you? I'll be taking the blame for you as much as I want," I snap.

"Do you even know how ridiculous that sounds? I'm tired of you constantly giving me this whole 'better me than her' attitude, ok? I can handle myself against a guy with a temper. He can't even walk straight! Stop fussing over me like that!"

"I can't let him hurt you!" I shout at her, getting up and in her face, my arms in the air in anger. "Can't you see? I don't want him to lay a hand on you! I want to keep you safe!"

"You can't keep me safe from everything, Gwinn," she tells me in a hard tone. "Ok? I can handle myself, just as I have been for the last five years. Besides, I'm the older one, no? _I'm_ the one who should be standing where you are, shouting at _you_ about keeping _you_ safe. You don't get to do this, you got that? You let me take account for my own actions, and face my own consequences," she says, taking the twenty seven minutes she has on me very seriously.

She hardly ever does that, but when she does, she's damn serious about being older and being the smart and responsible and protective one; she goes into full 'nig sister' mode. "I don't want to hear this nonsense anymore, you got that?" she says, pointing a finger at my chest to emphasize her point. "If I do something, I answer for it, because whatever I do, I have a damn good reason, and I don't need you taking him on for me. Am I clear on that?"

I sigh in defeat, knowing not to argue with her any further, because she means business. I bite my lip, giving up. "Yeah, I got it; and you don't get to slap me around," I state. Clair smirks.

"Oh please, I know how hard I smacked you, and I know it didn't hurt. Don't play innocent with me, young lady; you deserved it and you know it." But she's playful now, they 'older sister' hardness now completely gone from her voice. She would never hurt me. And yeah, I guess I deserved it – well, at least from her point of view. From my point of view, I was, and still am right. I don't care that she's twenty seven minutes older than me; I will protect her from everything I can.

"Ok, you go to sleep, I have to stay up for a little, I have a few things to take care of," I say, motioning to my laptop on the desk. Clair gives a nod. "Ok; I paid the electric and water bill, by the way. And don't stay up too late." I nod.

She shuts the door, regulating the lights in the room, dimming them but not turning them off entirely; never entirely. I never sleep with the lights off. Clair goes to bed and I take my laptop, plopping down on the bed and turning it on. I wait for it to start up, and when it finally does, I search up the car's plate number, and then advance the search via the police database of Tranquility. It had to be registered here, if the kid driving it is here.

The information comes up, but the page is next to empty. I frown; I don't get it: when the police were working on the case, we gave them the car's license plate; it should be in here. There really isn't anything at all, except for that some seventeen-year-old kid with an unpronounceable last name owns it now – bought it yesterday. I huff, advancing the search farther, using the FBI database, giving the license plate and description, and finding that… ok, what the hell?

That… That isn't possible. There is another car, just like it, owned by a woman named Amanda Sparks, who lives in… South Carolina? That's not possible; she still has it now – had it for the last seven years. That can't be right. How is it that that same car is owned by two people? Maybe…

I search the woman up on in the database. No charges, no… well… nothing at all, really. She's a model citizen who, according to her credit card, never left the state; lived her whole life in Hampton, South Carolina; never so much as left the _town_, let alone the _country_.

This… this can't be right. I open another page, searching her car up again, finding a picture. It's identical to the one I saw tonight. Old and rusty, and no license plate in the front. How is that even possible? It can certainly be the same model, but it can't be identical, to the point where it has the same plate number.

Only her car and personal record is fine. The car here in Tranquility, with that seventeen-year-old kid what's-his-name, that's something I'd like to look into. Not information about it whatsoever, other than that fact that it was bought yesterday.

.oOo.

I try, for the seventeenth time, to knock on the front door. And for the seventeenth time, I can't bring myself to do so. I sigh again, curling my hand into a fist in front of my face. Why did I even come here, now at like, six thirty in the evening? What was I paining to say? I couldn't ask a poor seventeen-year-old kid about the previous owner of his new car; he'd ask why. And then what would I tell him? I couldn't do that to him.

But I had to try.

I groan and, swallowing my nerves, knock four times on the door. I get twitchy instantly. I feel my hands begin to shake a little. Really, what was I trying to accomplish by coming here, anyway? I should leave; I should really run while I have the chance. I should leave before they open the door and… it's too late.

I hear rustling from the inside, and moment later, the front door opens to reveal a man in his forties. He's wearing a look of confusion on his face, eyebrows knotted. As soon as he sees me, though, he straightens up, looking friendly and neighborly. "Hello," he says, "may I help you?"

"Uh…" I trail off, wanting to shrink into myself and disappear. But since that isn't an option, I take my next choice, and finish what I came here for. Nervously, I answer. "Yeah; I'm looking for Samuel Wit… wicky?" I say, hoping I said the name right.

"Sam? Oh, I don't know where he is at the moment; I can call him, though. What do you want?" he asks. "Can _I_ help you with something?"

"Actually, you might," I say, refraining from wrapping my arms around my torso. "It's about his car," I admit. The man's expression changes entirely. "Oh he didn't hit you, did he?"

I stiffen a laugh. Oh no! No, he didn't. I was… I was actually wondering… do you happen to know who the previous owner was?" I ask. Oh this was such a bad idea. Why did I have to come here? The man looks at me, completely confused, for a long moment, frowning in thought.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea. Why?"

"Oh… nothing… never mind," I say, very disappointed. "I was just… looking for someone."

"Oh… well… would you like to come in? You can wait for my son to come back; you can talk to him then." I shake my head. "Oh no, I can't. I have to go. I'm so sorry to bother you." I swallow thickly, disappointed that I made a rather embarrassing trip, and all for nothing.

And what was I even expecting, anyway? What was I going to do, get the address, and go to the man's, or woman's house? Demand that they turn themselves in for what they did? I didn't even see the driver, so how was I supposed to find them? It was hopeless; a lost cause. I spent five year, watching the road, wishing, for some reason, that I would see that Camaro drive by. I was hoping that I would be able to look that person in the eye, tell them exactly what they did, and make them feel as guilty as they were. But I never thought about how I would find them. I've practiced speeches that I might give, to tell them exactly what they've done and to who. But now, looking at it logically, I didn't think I could do any of that if I see them. I'd just walk away, cursing them in every language on the planet, in my head; silently, so no one would hear, and no one would know, because I just don't have the guts to speak up to them.

And on top of that, I didn't think I was ready to face that person. I wasn't ready to see their face or talk to them. I wasn't ready for any of it.

"Hey! What are you doing!" the man suddenly shouts, making me jump into the air. I turn around, my jaw hitting the ground. "Hey!" I scream. "Hey, that's my car!" Some guy in a hoodie shuts the driver's door, sticking a screwdriver in the ignition, and hits it with a hammer. I jump off the porch, running to my car. "That's my car, get out!" I shout, slamming into the door as the car flares to life. It's not even a car someone would want to steel, just some old thing that my dad used to drive ten years ago!

I tug on the handle, only to find that the door is locked. "No! Get out of my car! Get out and I won't tell the police on you!" It's a stupid last ditch effort, and I can tell the guy knows I'm lying about letting him go because the car starts moving. I hold onto the door handle, running with the car, but it get's about of reach, and within a moment, the car is out of my grasp, and speeding away down the road.

Oh I knew I should have locked the car. But I figured that I'm right there, so nothing will happen. 'Nothing will happen'… famous last words.

I run after the car, waving my arms, and screaming senseless things at the car thief. I come to a stop, still screaming. "Hey! Come back here so I can kick your sad ass!" I can't beat anyone's ass, actually. I'll stick to my computers and video games, thank you very much.

I so shouldn't have come. God damnit! Tears roll down my face again. At least I still have my bag, with my wallet. But we can't afford to buy a new car! And a car is the safest place you can be, other than in your house, in my neighborhood. Especially that specific area I live in.

Damn it! We've already been sharing one car between two people who have to be in seven different places all at once. How am I going to get to work now? It's like a half hour walk away! Nad Clair's isn't any closer! She can't walk to work in our neighborhood!

I turn around, whipping the tears out of my eyes, but they keep coming. My car was just stolen right in front of me! Can my luck get any worse? I hate my job, I hate my school, I hate my neighborhood, I hate my sister's boss, she and I are drowning in debt, our dad drink half our money away, and now we don't have a car! We don't freaking have a car!

I let out a murderous screech, screaming at the sky like a crazy person. This can't be happening; it just can't. This is all a bad dream, and I will wake up any moment, in bed, in my room, in my house, and my car will be in the lot, and it will be Saturday, and Clair and I will go hang out at a fast food place, and talk about anything we want and everything will be ok… or as ok as it can be, at least.

I close my eyes tight, counting to ten, and when I open them… the scene in front of me hadn't changed one bit. It's still a terrible day, and our car is still gone, and Clair still doesn't know that I saw the Camaro from all those years ago. And she's still going to hate me for not telling her that I saw it.

I go back to the house, stopping the man from calling the police. "Don't bother," I say, "I'll call them when I get home," I tell him, putting a hand on his phone.

"You want a ride?" he offers. As nice as that would be, "No, it's ok, I'll walk," I tell him, shaking my head. I wouldn't want him to know that I live where I live, and I most certainly wouldn't want to risk him seeing my dad. It would only cause more problems.

"Are you sure? Your car was just stolen; you don't look like you're in a good shape to walk home. It's really no problem." I shake my head, still rejecting the generous offer. "No, really, I'm fine. They'll find the car, and bring it back. And I so better get paid for that. I swear, if I don't get compensation for this, I will kill him." That may not have been the best thing to say, especially in the murderous tone, and with the death glare that I wore, but I had to get that out. I will kill him if he doesn't pay me for this.

I'm too angry to stress over the actual fact that I'm angry and decide that, even though going after him with a bazooka may be a favorable choice, it certainly isn't the best choice.

I say thank you and goodbye and head in the direction of my home – which is a good eight miles away. I can't go on a bus, because I'm bound to get carsick. Last time I got on a bus, I had to stop it and get off, and the moment my feet hit the ground, so did my lunch. But at the single thought of how far I will need to walk, I start crying again. This is just a perfect day! Bloody _perfect_! This is going to be a _very_ long walk.

I take my phone out of my pocket, plugging in my earphones, and turn on my songs on shuffle. Maybe now the walk home won't seem quite so long – although I have a feeling I will hear every song I have before I get home.

.oOo.

I was right: I hear every song I have on my phone, and am listening to the third song the second time around by the time that I'm about three quarters of the way home. By now, darkness has fallen, the approximate time – at least judging by how long ago the sun has set – being nine thirty. I don't bother to check my phone to be exact – I honestly don't really care what time it is. All this walking exhausted me to the point where I'm too tired to be angry anymore. Actually, I'm too tired to do anything at all, especially walk – not that I have much of a choice in that matter.

I do, however, take my phone out of my front pocket to check how much life it has left, after all this time. I would have been home by now had I chosen to run – or at least walk faster – but I figured I needed the excessive amount of fresh air to calm myself. Not that city air is fresh, but it's better than the noxious stench of five years of mixing alcoholic smell, or the reek of sharpie ink right next to my bed, or the burned eggs on the stove, or really any of the other five hundred malodors found in the old house – like trash that fetuses to be taken out, cigarette smoke, worn into clothing over the last half a decade, or fouled food when the refrigerator breaks.

Just thinking all that makes the polluted city air smells a lot fresher and nicer.

Why did I think it was a good idea to come there? What was I looking for? What was I trying to accomplish. Worse yet, what will Clair do when she finds out I lost our car? Worse _still_, what will dad do? I didn't want to think about it. But I guess I had one gain from all of this: I didn't have to hide the car keys from dad anymore. There was no more threat of him going out and driving in his ever-drunk state. I kick a rock, and it bounces against the building next to me, rolling across the sidewalk, and onto the road.

Stupid rock. Stupid town name. Stupid sharpie markers and their reek. Stupid job. If I keep going, the entire world and everything in it will end up being stupid, because I'm really in the mood for blaming things. So I stop, because at this rate, I will even call Clair stupid, and I really don't want that. All I wasn't is for her to hug me and hold me and go to bed with me and hold me until I fall asleep, and stay with me all night. I want her to sing me a song, even though I was always the one with the voice – she's ok, too, but she has our mom's voice, while I have our dad's.

Dad used to be a great singer, right up until five years ago. I used to be a great singer, too, but I gave up on music when he did. Clair kept it, finding strength in it, while for me, it only brought up memories I didn't want to have. I always envied her in that way: she was always stronger than me in that sense. She took what hurt her most, and turned it against itself. She made the best out of the worst of situations; she found strength in her weaknesses whereas I just let my weaknesses get to me. I shut music out of my life, where there was a time when I'd sing every day, whenever, wherever, as much as I could.

Clair is now the one singing me song and lulling me to sleep, not the other way around. I feel like she, feeling older, thus responsible for me, tries to fill in the void that mom used to take up. She tires to be there for me the way mom was. She took on the roll of the older woman in the family, and as much as I try to protect her, she still feels like I'm her responsibility.

I wish she'd let me take care of her the way she takes care of me. I try so hard to be there for her the way mom was, try so hard to give her that love. But that kind of motherly love – the most powerful love in the world… or at least that's how it should be – is beyond me.

I look up then, and for a long moment, I feel very confused. It doesn't make sense for some time, as – though I've calmed down – thinking straight is still an issue. When it does catch up with me, my eyes widen in shock: I took the wrong turn. The outcome reaches me not long after, and the shock is briefly replaced by fear: I have no idea where I am. I've never seen this part of town before.

We may be a small town, the population being only about forty-something thousand, but I had little time and no interest of learning the town. I know a fair portion of it; however this is not on the list of place I know.

I momentarily panic, remembering that I have my phone after a few seconds that I have my phone with me. I pull up a map of the city, requesting a pinpoint of where my phone is, and therefore, where _I_ am. As it turns out, about four blocked back, I missed my intersection – since I was looking down at the ground, rather than the street signs – and turned one turn too late, taking me to a completely different part of town. I groan I frustration, taking the risk of jinxing it, and huff "can my day get ANY better," my voice dripping with sarcasm, as I put my phone away.

That was my mistake.

Almost as soon as I say the words, someone knocks into me at full speed, causing me to topple over forward. I catch myself on my bag, holding onto it to keep from falling.

Wait? Holding onto my _bag_? How is my bag keeping me from falling?

I look up, and instantly snatch the strap three times tighter, holding it as I would my only chance at life as a guy in shades tries to rip it form my grasp. Oh no he didn't! I lost my car today – had it stolen from right in front of me, for that! – I am _not_ losing my bag, too! I really like that bag! I may have bought it over three years ago, but it has severed me in everything! I like it too much! Plus, I would let it go had my wallet not been in it.

"Hey, don't touch that, that's mine!" I scream, trying to snatch the bag back. I pull on it, tugging at the strap, but strength – along with height – was never something to be bragged about. But I wasn't weak, either, and saw enough movies to know how to throw a punch or two.

Too bad I also knew how much it could hurt, and was too chicken to actually punch someone. "You can't touch that, it's mine! I need it!" I scream pointlessly, realizing only later, just how dumb and childlike it sounded. Still, it didn't stop me. "Help! Help; someone is trying to mug me!" I cry out to anyone who might hear and care enough about a young girl in distress to help. "Please, someone help!"

But in these parts, no one would care enough to help. Actually, no one anywhere at all would care enough to help, no matter where you live.

So, gathering all my guts and the knowledge I got from TV and books, I give a violent tug on the bag, dragging the guy towards me, pull my hand back, and slap him across the face as hard as I can. My hand instantly stings, like it's being stabbed with a hundred tiny needles. And if my hand hurts this much from the slap… I wince a little, imagining how much his face hurts.

His head snaps to the side and for a moment, I'm afraid he broke his neck because of how suddenly it did so. He lets go of my bag, and I stumble back when the pull on his side is gone. His hand goes to his face and he half-hisses and half-cries out in pain. My own hand flies to my chest in shock at what I did and I hurry to apologize. "Oh God, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to do that. Ok well… I did, actually, but I didn't mean to hurt you so much." Wait, why am I apologizing to the guy who just tried to steal my bag? Oh no, not happening. I snap out of it, going to flip him off and run for it when he hisses "you _bitch_!" looking up at me and moving his hand from his face. On his right cheek are three long gashes, oozing crimson blood.

My eyes widen and I look down at my left hand, finding bits of flesh, and blood under my nails and on my fingertips. I have someone's face underrated my nails! Oh my God, get it off of me! I freak out, looking for something to wipe my hand on when I catch sight of something long and silver. Given the situation, I instantly understand what it is and let out a horrified shriek.

I reach my hands out in front of me, screaming in fear as the guy lounges at me, knife aimed at my torso. My eyes wide, I do the one thing I can think of, and grab the blade with both hands.

It takes me a moment to figure out that I actually did catch it, looking down at my abdomen to see the tip of it a mare inch away from me. I'm confused for a long moment, not understanding anything. I caught the blade; why don't I feel it? Only when I see blood dripping in a steady stream, down to the ground, does my hand begin to dully throb. I wince at first, hoping dearly that this is as far as it will go, but my hopes go unanswered as the pain swells, increasing at a ridiculous speed. As it does, my mouth opens more and more in pain, my face twisting at the awful burning feeling in my palm. Before long, I hear a distant cry of agony.

I always thought myself to be someone quite resistant to pain, but now, I was seeing stars to the point where my eyes start to hurt , feeling like they are about to fall out if my head.

Holly mother of God! I let out a mental trail of courses, too foul for a girl my age to know, distantly hearing most of them being screamed out loud.

Faintly, I hear a strange noise over my cry; one I cannot decipher. The face of the guy in front of me twists into an expression of panic, confusion, and most of all sheer and utter terror. He lets out a scream far more feminine than mine – which says a lot, given that I _am_ a girl – and bolts for it, not bothering with me anymore.

Through my pain I turn around, my gaze trailing up, and suddenly the pain is gone, my senses driven to a single feeling: bone-chilling horror.

**AN: ooh… dun-dun-dun! Cliffhanger! Don't you love them? Ok, so what do you think of the chapter? By the way, first chapter got seven reviews. That broke my record of number of reviews per chapter; I love you guys! Who wants to see if we can break this new record! Let's see if chapter two can get seven or more reviews!**

**Anyway, my personal competition against myself aside, I really hope you liked the chapter, and I will be seeing you soon. Bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:**

Guest: _Well, I have to keep you on the edge of your seat somehow, don't I? Don't worry, she's fine, trust me. I'll be throwing a few of those in every now and then, but I myself am not a fan of cliffhangers, so there won't be much, I promise. Unless I feel the need to spice things up, there shouldn't be cliffhangers_.

Galaxypa: _Yeah; don't you ever have one of those days? You know, one of those days when it feels like life is conspiring against you and all you wanna do is crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of your life? Yeah, that's kind of what's going on here. Car stolen, then she gets mugged… not a good day at all. I'm glad you like this, and I really hope her reaction satisfies you. I had a bit of trouble with it, but I think I got it right_.

oblivion-blade-princess: _I'm glad you like the re-write as much as you do the older version. I promise to make this one even better for you!_

**Ok, now to what's on all your minds, I assume: I'm so sorry for taking so long! It doesn't usually happen without good reason. It's just that my muse was everywhere but where I needed her to be, so I wrote and rewrote this chapter several times before being satisfied with it. I finally got it, so here you go.**

**Don't forget to review, my lovelies. I'll reply to reviews over a hundred characters, but all reviews are highly appreciated and loved!**

**Now, last chapter got nine reviews! Awesome! I love you all for that! Let's see if we can break that record! I'm not holding my fic hostage until I get a certain amount of reviews, I promise. It's just my own little competition. So let's see if we can get ten reviews!**

**I don't own Transformers.**

I'm too shocked to even let out the high-pitch screech that gets stuck in my throat, burning to rip through; cutting at me like a razor sharp serrated knife. My eyes are so wide that I'm actually afraid that they might fall out of my head at the sight before me. If you are to ask me to name the thing… the word _monster_ comes to mind at once. I don't think there is another name for it. Like Frankenstein's monster, only a hell of a lot more advanced in terms of technology; like the said creation, only… from the _future_. I don't think there was another possible name for the think towering over me, a good three times my own height.

I crank my neck, throwing my head back to stare up at the thing, face frozen in a scream, yet not making a sound. The thing stares behind me, a menacing expression on its face, for a long while – or at least, it feels like a long time – and then its attention is drawn to me. Its head jerk down, looking down at me so instantly that the shriek which I had been withholding breaks free, ringing shrill up and down the dark street.

It burns my throat like liquid fire, sending lava through my veins and setting me on fire in utter fear. This isn't happening; this is not possible! It's unreal!

As my voice breaks free and the silver monster jerks away, its expression changing to that of surprise, and momentarily even fear. The glowing blue things I assume to be its eye dart up and down the road, his expression quickly changing to panic and it starts frantically shaking its head and waving its arms in a "stop" gesture at me.

"No, no, no! Hold it there, kid; I ain't hurtin' ya! Hey, don' be shoutin'!" it shouts at me in plain English. This cuts my voice off, rendering me mute again. I stare up at it, eyes – if that's even possible – even wider. How the hell… "You speak English?" I breathe; so quietly, in fact, that I doubt the thing even heard me.

"Oh Yeah; your planet's main database's got it all in it. Found it on the 'Net." I stare at it, its words sinking in.

"Your planet?" I ask in a shaking, barely audible voice.

"Well ya ain' thinkin' ah'm from here, are ya?" it asks. With every Sci-Fi movie I ever watched, it makes perfect sense – even if at the same time it makes no sense whatsoever. I scream again, falling backwards on my backside, my back hitting the ground painfully.

"Please don't hurt me!" I shout. "I still have a long life to live, and places to go and see. I mean come on; I'm not even out of high school yet!" I scream, my Russian accent coming through ever so slightly. I cover it up quickly, though.

"Hey, hey, hey!" it shouts, silencing me, "I ain' here ta hurcha, femme! That slager back there did 'nough o' that," it says, jerking his head past me, to where the mugger ran away, screaming like a girl. I try to stop my scream in the fear that if I don't, it won't end well for me, but the thought only makes me scream louder – if that's even possible, that is. "Oh would ya stop that?!" the monster shouts at me, spreading its arms – arms? – out. "Ah told ya I ain' gonna hurt ya, so could ya quit makin' that noise? It's hurtin' my audio-receptors!" His what? And wait; did I just address that thing as a 'him'? Then again, his voice does sound masculine, so I guess…

No, machine can't have genders! That's not possible! _It_ isn't possible! It's not real! Nevertheless, I shut up, my mouth loudly snapping shut. I stare up at the monster, now seemingly taller than before, from my angle down here on the sidewalk. "There, much betta'. Now let's see that hand o' yours," it says, motioning to my hand. Instantly, the pain comes back threefold, triggered by the memory and realization, and I let out a painful cry as it begins to burn, tears forming in my eyes, and spilling over faster than I can say the _word_ 'tears'.

I whimper, catching my breath and holding it to stop the crying, but fail, and come in for another round of crying, my voice breaking off at random places.

"Ok, can ya stay still fo' a sec?" it – ok, let's call it a 'him'; it'll make things a lot easier – he tells me. I manage to nod my head, my face twisting in pain at the burning on my right palm. He kneels down, reaching a hand – hand? – for me. "Jus' don' freak out again, 'k?" I make a muffled sound of agreement, my voice cracking as tears stream down my face. My hand hurts too much to pay any mind to him carefully picking me up and standing my up on the ground. I try to stand on my own, but my hand is making the given task more than difficult.

He take my arm between two… fingers, holding it up to look at the crimson gash across it. "As a solder, ah _have_ ta know a bit o' this 'n that 'bout injuries on the battlefield, but I ain't know nothin' 'bout this. Ya know how ta patch this up?" he asks me. I whimper and shake my head, trying to choke down my crying, but to no avail.

How can this day be so terrible? First me car was stolen, now this… It isn't fair! Why do I have to work my butt off at two jobs, for minimum wage, when some people, not two miles south of here get to live in prestige houses and go to the good school in town? Why do they get to buy nice clothes, and hang out with good friends while Clair and I have to work a night shrift twice a week to pay for my dad's alcohol, pay the hospital fees, and the overprices rent, and the only person I can more or less call a friend – although she's more of an acquaintance than anything – is a… a – I'm not gonna lie – prostitute?

Why does life gotta be so unfair? The only reason I keep my school grades up is because it gives this beautiful hope and/or illusion that I will actually manage to climb out of here, and I have a future outside of Walmart and Seven/Eleven!

"Ok listen here, a friend o' mine's comin'; he'll be here soon 'n he'll patch you up. As fo' now, which one are ya: Clair or Faye Darnel?" I cut off, mid-cry, my mouth dropping open.

"Depends on who's asking and what are your intentions," I mutter, "and most importantly: how the _hell_ do you know that?" I ask eyes wide once again. I'm pretty sure there was no way he overheard someone speak it.

"Oh right, sorry 'bout that; the name's Jazz. 'N as fo' the second: took yer picture 'n ran it through the town's security force central database." A small smile of recognition spreads over my face and for a second I'm a little embarrassed that I didn't think of that option.

"Ah… facial identification," I confirm, nodding my head, my voice still shaking.

"Yeah. An' as fo' mah intentions… I'm jus' tryin' ta help. Ah waz jus' drivin' by 'n heard ya scream fer help. Saw that no one waz helpin' and stepped in."

"Yeah, no one was going to help had you not shown up," I tell Jazz. "So I guess I… I owe you m-my thanks," I whimper, holding my other hand shakily over the one with the blazing cut, which only seems to grow colder with every minute.

I feel my whole body start shaking in fear and panic. "Ok, stay with meh, here, don' go freakin' out on me 'gain," Jazz tells me. "Why doncha tell me what's a girl like you doin' out so late, eh?"

"My… my car…" I get out, the sobs of pain coming back again. "It… some freak stole it. It was like six… six in the evening, and it… I mean… I-I'm sorry…" I sob, my whole fame shaking as I do so.

"No, no, no; come one, talk ta meh. What happen'?"

"So… it was… it was far away and… I mean… I could have taken the bus but I… I get carsick if I go on buses so… so I had to w-walk back home… My hand hurts! I'm sorry!" I cry out, pulling my and into myself and cave my body around it.

"Hey there, you ain' gonna cry on meh again, are ya?" he asks, a little cautiously, as if afraid that I will. I get out a part cry, part laugh at the comment, my body shaking, my hand growing cold. "Jazz… my hand is cold… and my arm is, too. That… that's bad… right?" I stumble over my words, already knowing the answer before I finish asking the question. I've watched enough movies and books to know what it means when you start feeling cold. I want to curl my hand into a fist, for some reason thinking that it will hurt less that way, but my hand hurts too much to move it at all.

"Ehh… I don' know, femme; don' worry; doc's gonna be here any time now," jazz assures me. Who will be here any time now?

Just as I think that, I see blinking lights around me, white and red, and I hear a car pull up next to us. Before I know it, the sound of hissing and gears clinking together, moving and shifting, fills the night around us and by the time I took up and see through to veil of tears that shields my eyes, I see a monster, this time green, and looking almost identical to Jazz only one and a half times taller.

I open my mouth, but Jazz cuts my off before the sound even forms in my throat. "Please don' shout again!" he shouts, holding his hands out. I snap my mouth shut, nodding rapidly as I stare up at the green giant, cranking my neck further to look up at him, than I did with Jazz.

"Jazz, _please_ explain to me what this is?" Jazz doesn't respond at once. In fact, he doesn't respond at all. Instead, the two of them stare each other in the eye, seeming to have a conversation no one is in on. After a brief amount of time, the new giant huffs, turning to me so sharply that I stagger back, shaking more than I already was.

"Calm yourself, femme," he tells me, kneeling down. "Jazz informed me of an injury that you have been victim to. Show me your hand," he tells me in a semi-British accent. I obey, holding my right hand with my left, and reach it out to him, half-whimpering, half-sobbing. He stares at it intently for a moment, and the skin on my hand feels warmer than usual for a fraction of a second; like if you swipe you hand next to a light bulb.

He groans, shaking his head and turns to Jazz – who make something of a puppy-dog face – making eye contact once again, for a second before turning back to me. "Listen, this technology was never meant for organic life forms, so I am warning you: this will hurt _a lot_." Before I can react, his hand is hovering over mine, transforming into some sort of oversized laser pointer. He carefully grabs my hand with the fingers on his other hand and though it isn't painful, the hold on my hands is vice-like.

A bright red laser shoots out at my hand and I screech, instinctively trying to tear my hand away from the source of the agony. I feel like I put my hand on a stove element while it was on maximum heat. I screech at the absolute agony, trying to pull my hand from the death-hold, but it won't budge, and I struggle against the green monster's hold as he burns my hand. I feel like the skin on my hand might be melting right off my bone, but when the laser disappears and the heat is gone – unlike the pain, which keeps me screaming – all I see is a thin red line of newly formed, delicate skin where the bloody gash was what felt like an eternity ago.

I start full-out crying, not bothering to choke anything down as the burning on my hand eases, becoming more and more bearable – if only that would happen faster. My cry doesn't stop, but before I know it, a pair of arms are wrapped around me protectively, holding my tightly, and with no intention whatsoever of letting me go.

"Don't hurt her!" I hear the girl shriek up at Jazz and the other green monster. My entire body shakes, and the only thing holding me up are Clair's arms, wrapped around me securely. I let my knees give away, and Clair holds me up, not letting me hit the ground. I sink into her embrace, loving her protective hold on me. I feel so warm, and safe, and treasured and peaceful here with her.

Only then do I realize that _I'm in Clair's arms_. I take hold of her shoulders, holding myself up with the unhurt hand. I pull myself up, standing straight, my hand hurting badly, but bearably, and hug her, bury my face in her hair. "How did you find me?" I ask her breathlessly. She runs her fingers through my hair, holding my close to her.

"I did that thing you taught me, where I found your phone, and it was like ten-thirty, and you were going the wrong way and not turning back, and you were moving at a ridiculously slow speed, like you were walking or something, so I got worried and went to find you. What… what are these things? What do they want from you? What do you want from her?!" she shouts up at Jazz and Green.

"No, Clair, wait, slow down before you blame someone. They didn't hurt me," I tell her, pulling away to her at her face. Oh I didn't think it was possible to miss her as much as I just realized I did.

"Really? Because what I heard and saw when I came here says the very opposite," she snarls at them. "What are those things?" I can hear the terrified note in her voice, hard as she tried to hide it.

"Don't worry, Clair; I don't think they want to hurt us," I tell her soothingly, trying to calm her down as she did me. "They weren't hurting me, they were helping me. Some freak jumped me and tried to stab me. I grabbed the knife and so he nearly cut my hand off. Jazz – the silver one – heard me crying for help and came. And then the green one came. Look," I say, moving away a little, to show her my hand, "he didn't hurt me, he fixed me up – even though it hurt like hell, but that's irrelevant. If they wanted to hurt us, they'd never had helped me."

This seems to win her over without further explanation. "Oh, ok then. In that case, whatever you are; I'm sorry for shouting at you. And thank you for helping Gwinn. Now, for the question that I asked like three times: what are you?"

"Ah, you mus' be Clair. Nice ta meet ya. The name's Jazz, n' this 'ere's ol' Ratchet. We're from Cybertron," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Cyber-what?" Clair asks, raising an eyebrow. But before anyone has a chance to reply, she continues. "Whoa, hold up, you mean to tell me that the two of you are from like… some place I never heard of… You mean you're like… you know…" she stumbles, the words she means to say simply refusing to come out.

"Yeah, we're from space," Jazz confirms with a nod of his… head. Clair slowly nods, trying to take it in. She's already doing a million times better than me. She's the open-minded one in the family. She always had a crazy imagination; she'd meet the Leprechaun, or Santa, and she would lose her head instead of trying to reason with herself, telling herself it was impossible. To her, everything existed until proven otherwise. And she always wanted to meet aliens; and now that she was meeting them… oh these poor creatures. They won't know peace until she has every last bit of information about them; form how they mastered intergalactic space-travel, to highly embarrassing topics like reproduction. I can already see them losing their minds with her.

To her, believing in this is already happening. Give her another few seconds, and she'll be fine with it. I mean literally: Five… four… three… tow… one…

"Ok!" she chirps, "so are you good or bad? Wait, don't answer that; you saved Gwinn, so you're good – I hope. So let me get this straight: you're Jazz – like the music," she says, pointing at the said… Cybertronian, I believe it would be. "And you're Ratchet. And you're aliens here on Earth. So why are you here, anyway?"

"I'm sorry, but we have no time for that. We have a previously scheduled engagement to attend, and we cannot be late. So if you'll excuse us, we must be on our way," Ratchet tells us both – Clair's face instantly falling – only to have Jazz jump right in.

"Oh Ratch, we cain't leave 'em here; What if they get attacked 'gain, eh?"

"That is highly unlikely," Ratchet tells him, but Jazz presses on.

"Have ya looked 'round ya? Faye here was screamin' fo' 'elp 'n no one came!" he tells the green Cybertronian, spreading his arms in a 'well duh' gesture. "Ha' 'bout we take 'em to meet the others, 'n 'en we take 'em home."

At this, Clair perks up. "Others? What others? There are more of you here? Oh my God; that's so cool!" she squeals, her previous worry all but vanished, now that she knows I'm safe and ok. I carefully touch a finger to the delicate skin where the ugly gash used to be, wincing a little at the stinging sensation. "So why are you here? Why would aliens come to Earth? I mean, you came here from another planet, so obviously you're more advanced. What do you need from a planet that's less advanced?"

"Clair, if you shut up, they might be able to get a word in," I tell her.

"Right, sorry. It's just so exciting! Oh all the Sci-Fi movies were _way_ off about how you look like. Wait, what is that? Jazz, is that a car brand on your chest? Why do you have a car brand on your chest? Or is that just something that looks like an Earth car brand, but is really some form of… I don't-" I clamp my hand over her mouth before she can say anything else, and give the two giants an apologetic smile.

"She tends to get excited," I say.

"Neh, s'ok; I like 'er, she's fun!" Looks like Clair made a new friend. Oh of course she makes friends with an alien robot. Why am I even surprised? "An' yeah, we're lookin' for somethin'. 'T came here a long time 'go," Jazz says.

"Oh, well, we can help you look for it," Clair says, shoving my hand away from her face. "Besides, you kinda saved Gwinn here, so we kinda owe you that much.

"Ah don' think you can help us 'ere," Jazz tells her, shaking his head.

"Well then tell us what you're looking for, and we'll tell you if we can help or not. Besides, we live on Earth; you're new here. I think we know this place better than you do. There are an awful lot of things that don't show up on Google Maps, you know," she says proudly.

The Jazz and Ratchet look between each other, having a silent conversation. "Well we cain't leave 'em out here in the dark; ain't so good a place to live, 'f you ask me; it ain't safe for 'em," Jazz says, motioning to the two of us.

"Jazz…"

"They jus' gonna come with us, meet Big Boss, an' 'en we take 'em home. It'll be _fine_!" Jazz assures Ratchet, waving a dismissing hand up at the taller Cybertronian.

"Jazz…" Ratchet says again, shooting him a hard look, which Jazz brushes off. "Ratch, it ain't safe here, for two little femmes like 'em." While those two have their own argument – Clair secretly hanging on their every word – Clair turns to me, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Gwinn… about what I said before… Please tell me that you really were driving at a ridiculously slow speed."

I flinch. "Do you want the real answer, or the 'how-about-I-make-you-feel-better' answer?"

"Gwinn, where is the car?" she asks, her voice now hard. I sigh, putting on the best puppy face I can before telling her that it was stolen from me. Her face goes from surprise, to shock, and frustration, to anger, and she groan loudly, clenching her hands into fists.

Deep breath in, deep breath out; she does that five or six times before speaking. "Well, at least you're ok. You… are ok, right?" I nod in confirmation, biting my lip,

"I'm sorry, Clair, There was little I could do. I was just talking to this guy, and then he started shouting that someone was stealing my car. When I turned around, the person was already in the car, and…" I go on; explaining the entire scene, but Clair puts up a hand, silencing me. "Not now, ok? We can worry about a stolen car later. Right now, we have more pressing matters on our hands," she says, jerking her head back at the two arguing metallic beings.

Just then, our attention is driven back to the two arguing… robots? I think they're robots, since they are metal, and… metal… you get the point. Jazz tells us that we can come with, to wherever they are going – apparently to meet 'the Big Boss', and within a second, a question I shared with Clair is answered: why does Jazz have a car logo on his chest. The answer is because the dude can fold into on!

I'm not even kidding: he just bent down and folded up into a silver sports car! My mouth hangs open for a long while, my expression mirroring Clair's, and then we both simultaneously squeal. "Oh my God, so that _was_ a car brand on you!" I shout at the same time as Clair shouts "Holly mother… that' awesome!"

"You wan' a ride?" Jazz asks, opening the front doors. We squeal, and I run around the car to the passenger seat, hopping in as Clair's door closes. My door shuts, and the lavish sports car roars to life proudly.

"Amazing choice of car, by the way," I compliment, Clair finishing my thought for me with "where did you get it? There is no way two different planets have the same car. Did you like... I don't know… scan it or something?"

"Yup," Jazz says smugly.

"So where are you taking us, exactly?" I ask as the car starts moving.

"Ta meet mah Boss. Don' worry, we'll bring ya back soon as we're done. Ah jus' don' want ta have the two o' you wonderin' round at night."

"Oh please, take your time. We're in no hurry to get home," Clair huffs. "And thank, again."

"Pft, no probs," Jazz waves her off. "An'… why? Aren' your creators watin' fo' you?"

"Creators? You mean like… parents or something?"

"Maybe; ah don' know. Not too familiar with your vocab." Jazz says. Well… creators… yeah, it's probably the same.

"Nah," I say, waving my hand. "No one's waiting for us to get home. Hell, I'm gonna bet that he didn't even notice we're gone. Don't worry about it; it's no biggie."

"Why… would your creator not notice you two gone?"

"His piss drunk, that why," I spit in anger, pressing my lips into a tight line. "He won't care unless we don't show up in the morning to make breakfast."

"But…"

"Can we not talk about dad? He's drunk, and you, by the way, don't have the right to ask 'why' yet, so can we drop this subject. It's our problem; we'll deal with it," I say sharply, not meaning to be mean, but to simply get it through that the matter is not one that is open for discussion.

"Alright; well ha' 'bout why'd Clair call ya 'Gwinn'? Ain' your name 'Faye'?"

"Yeah," I say, "it is; Gwinn is a nickname. Clair's been calling me that since like ten years ago. Ask her about the 'why' 'cause I have _no_ idea."

"Don't look at me, man; I don't know either. I just accidentally called her Gwinn one day, and it stuck. Plus, don't you think she looks more like a 'Gwinn' then a 'Faye'?"

"Uh… I wouldn' know. That all be Earth stuff," Jazz says.

"Oh, well ok then. How about this: why's your name Jazz? I mean, did your parents really name you after music? Not that there is anything wrong with it; it's really cool, actually, but how can you be named after music?" I ask

"That's the closest ah could find, in your language, that would translate right. My name isn't Jazz, but you won' evah be able ta say mah real name."

"Ohhh!" Clair says.

"Hey," I say, "speaking of jazz; can you turn on some music? I _hate_ silence in the car," I say. Jazz gives a cheer and the radio flare to life instantly. I smile, recognizing the song. So does Clair, and she instantly starts singing along, as she usually does when she knows the lyrics.

"Oh I love this song!" she cheers. "You don't mind if I sing, right?"

"Help yourself," Jazz says. Then completely irrelevantly, "Ok, ok, I'm coming!" I make a confused face.

"Come again?"

"Oh, we're running a little late," he tells us. The car instantly speeds up to at least twice the speed limit, my back pressing into the seat, a smile spreading across my face same time as worry sets in.

"Jazz… can you please slow down?" I ask.

"We'll be late for the meeting," he tells me, and I nod in understanding, but stand my ground.

"Jazz, please slow down' What if someone runs out onto the road? You might not be able to stop in time and…" I trail off, my gaze drifting into the distance in memory.

"Hey! You doubting mah driving skills? That ain' nice. Relax, I'm a great driver."

"I don't doubt it, but there is always the risk," I say cautiously.

"Don' worry, it's cool," he assures me, but I can't let it go.

"Jazz… please slow down a little," I plead, Clair joining me in on that one.

"Please Jazz, just a little."

"Don't worry! You're safe, ah promise ya! I'mma great drivah!"

"It's not us we're worried about. I trust your driving, I really do; what I don't trust is some teenager who doesn't look both ways before crossing the road and jumps out in front of you before you even realize what happened," I beg.

There is a huff, and the car does slow down, but not much. I don't ask for more, knowing that maybe if we're late to meet the 'Big Boss', and Jazz is driving this fast, it meet that Big Boss is someone _really_ important. So I let the snuggest drop, instead listening to Clair sing along with the songs and watching the sleeping town go by in a blur, and praying to God that no one jumps out in front of the car.

"So Jazz…" I start, "why _are_ you on Earth? What are you looking for?"

"Well… we lookin' fo' this cube thing. It's real big an' real powerful. 'T gives mah planet life. We got ta find it fast, n' go back. Boss'll explain it bettah, trus' meh. Now why doncha tell meh prop'ly what were ya doing out so late, eh? Ah couldn't understand a word last time."

"Yeah… sorry bout that. So I went to find this… person. I saw him last night, and I recognized him. And so I needed to ask him something and I did find where he lived, but he wasn't home, so while I was talking to his dad, this guy ran up to my car and stole it. I had to walk home because taking the bus makes me sick. But I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, and took the wrong turn. That's where the mugger got me-"

"-Mugger?! You didn't say anything about a mugger, Gwinn!"

"Clair, if you gave me a chance to get a word in… actually, who am I kidding, I wouldn't tell you anyway, you overreacting death machine."

"Overreacting? I am _not_ overreacting! You were attacked! I think that's reason enough to freak out."

"Oh calm down, would you? Everything turned out fine, right, Jazz?"

"… Ah wouldn't really say that. He did stab ya. An' 's like you said: no one would'a come ta help ya. And… why is that?"

"Isn't it obvious? No one cares. They're all too scared to come out and face a guy with a hunting knife and a bad temper. They might get hurt in the posses. 'Better you than me' type of thing."

"Then why do ya live 'ere?"

"It's one of the only places in town cheap enough," Clair says, "and it's that part of town where people don't generally ask for resumes or anything."

"Walmart asked me for a resume and took an interview," I say, "but the bar I work in didn't ask for either. I just came in looking for a job. The manager took one look at me and I had a job."

"Yeah, well you did have a bit of an advantage," Clair says sourly and in disgust. Yeah, I did have to looks for the uniform of a waitress, but Jazz didn't need to know that. The job was doing absolutely no good to whatever was left of my sense of self-worth and ego, but thanks to my looks, I got tipped forty of something percent, and made twice as much in tips as I did in my by-the-hour paycheck, so it did have its advantages.

"Advantage? What advantage?" Jazz asks.

"It's nothing," I say, brushing it off casually. "Earth stuff; forget it. Let's not talk about freaks with knives and bars; it's really bringing the mood down."

"Yeah," Clair says, her face lighting up. "There were a few questions I wanted to ask you." In that moment, I could hear Jazz's sanity being flushed down the toilet. I stiffen a laugh and face-palm.

This is going to be the longest drive of his life.

**AN: So did I do good on her reaction to Jazz? Please tell me that I did! I had a hard time making her afraid, but not overreacting, so please tell me how I did.**

**Ok so, I'm making plans for the rest of the story right now, so I need your opinion here: Should I save Jazz? I want to keep it close to canon, so Faye (or as Clair calls her: Gwinn) and Clair won't be in the battle so much (if at all, but trust me, I have their parts planned out, so don't worry, they won't be made useless). But should I save Jazz?**

**I'll let you decide. We'll have a vote on this. You can only vote once, so don't vote and then log out and leave a review as a guest please. Let's keep it fair.**

**Anyway, please tell me what you thought of this chapter, and what was your favorite part, and I will see you all next time. Any questions about the story, characters, or even the author herself… ASK AWAY! I'll see you all soon; bye!**

**Question of the day****: if you could be any Autobot/Decepticon, who would it be, and why?**


End file.
